


Nothing Else Matters

by nothingelsematters



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Gen, because plushy and all the young skaters were adorable, gratuitous comfort fic, mother hen plushy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingelsematters/pseuds/nothingelsematters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five minutes after Plushenko's withdrawal from the men's SP came a moment almost as equally heartbreaking when Brendan Kerry had to suffer the ignominy of not only failing to qualify for the free skate, but coming dead last.</p>
<p>So here's a bit of a something that was more a vent to my tortured soul than anything else, because that violin will haunt my dreams forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Else Matters

Twenty years at the higher levels of the sport Evgeni loves so much has given him the experience and knowledge that he no longer has to watch to know how a skate has gone.

He can feel it, in the way the air moves, the soft sounds of a blade cutting through the ice, the quiet murmurs and rise and fall of the crowd’s collective voice. The energy that builds in the rink, good and bad, and that every skater, consciously or not, drinks it in.

The energy in the rink now...Evgeni doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s bad, and good, and bittersweet and somehow sour in his mouth. But there are also undercurrents of youthfulness, strength, determination. He sighs. He’s too old for this.

He is presently seated in the mixed zone out the back, waiting for his interrogation by the press to begin, waiting for the doctors and Mishin to stop fussing. He hears the next skater’s music start, and closes his eyes. It’s not bad music, and Evgeni can feel that the skate to it is decent, though not great. He’s pleased that the young man wasn’t thrown off by his sudden withdrawal.

They sit quietly through the scores, and then the haunting notes of a violin begin, and Evgeni feels a terrible foreboding in his heart.

He can picture this skater, because he’d noticed him that week, as he’d noticed everything. Tall, handsome, with dark eyes that were wide and bright with excitement and overwhelmed with awe at being at the Olympics. A young man from a country where ice was just a dream and a rumour and figure skating a tiny minority sport.

But now...the violin is haunting, and sorrowful, and Evgeni feels the energy, and wishes desperately that he might somehow turn it positive, might somehow stop what he knows is about to happen.

He hears the soft groans, the polite applause; he can feel the young man’s desperation as his dreams all come undone.

The last haunting note hangs in the air, and Evgeni bows his head. No matter what anyone says about him, he loves all of the young skaters, and hovers over them all with mother-hen pride. He knows that someone else’s dream has just shattered.

Then Mishin nudges him, and Evgeni, with difficulty, stands to face the press.

“I am not a robot,” he says. But feeling the anguish radiating from the young man who just rushed past in a green and gold jacket, sometimes he wishes he was.

*

Brendan had spotted the storage area before, walking past casually when he was casing the joint before his first practice. It had not really entered his mind then, but now it seems like the perfect place to hide.

He makes a beeline for it, so fast that he’s certain no-one saw which way he went – and besides, away from the Team Australia officials, he is anonymous; no-one knows who he is, and after today, he thinks, no-one will care.

He curls himself in a ball, and lets the tears flow. All these hours, all that effort, all that time, and now his Olympic dream is in tatters, lying in ruins all around him. He’d choked. That would be what they’d call it back home, that would be the headline in the paper, that would be written in the disappointed glances and tweets clogging his timeline. That he, on the biggest, grandest, most wonderful stage of all, had choked.

Brendan buries his face in his arms and sobs.

*

Evgeni knows many things. For example, he knows where all the hiding places of the rink are. He knows he’ll have to pull more skaters out of them before the night – or before the week, really – is through.

But for the moment, his only concern is the tall dark Australian.

He finds the storage cupboard, and hears a faint sob inside. He knows, just knows, that this is Brendan’s hiding place.

Suddenly, he hears Australian-accented voices moving towards him. The sobs in the cupboard hiccup. Evgeni knows that Brendan could be found any moment. He straightens up and leans against the door.

*

Brendan hears the voices, and scrubs at his face, resigned. He knows he’s going to be found. He can see the shadow of someone standing against the door.

His coach’s voice rings out: “Have you seen Brendan? You know, Kerry. Young man, maybe so tall, dark hair?”

And then the answering voice has Brendan reeling in shock.

“Nyet, I do not know where Brendan is. Maybe with the food?”

He knows that voice. Evgeni Plushenko has just prevented Brendan from being found.

The Australian voices fade, but the shadow at the door does not disappear.

“I not let them find you,” Evgeni’s voice says again, low and quiet and Brendan is really shocked now. So shocked, that he stands up, and opens the door.

Evgeni nearly falls over backwards. For all that he knows many things, he wasn’t expecting that.

“You protected me. Why?” Brendan asks without preamble.

Evgeni shrugs. “You needed to hide.”

Brendan feels his face crumpling again, and he tries to stop it, because he is _not going to cry in front of Evgeni Plushenko_!

But Evgeni just smiles, and puts an arm around Brendan, and its safety and warmth and security and Evgeni doesn’t seem to care as Brendan’s tears stain his Russia jacket.

“I-I’m sorry,” he hiccups.

“No sorry,” Evgeni answers. “Dreams are broken, tears are allowed.”

“T-they’ll all be so disappointed in me,” Brendan chokes. “Dani and Greg. Brooklee. My coach. My sister. My...oh god, my mother...”

“Why?” Evgeni says sternly. “They should be proud. You make Olympics. This is big thing, for you, for me, for everyone. Just to make Olympics...greater than medal, sometimes.”

They stand there quietly for a moment, and Brendan brings his crying under control. “Do...do you really believe that? You?”

Evgeni smiles. “You think, Olympics is easy for me? Never easy. Never. Even when I am your age, Olympics is not easy. We are here. Nothing else matters.”

For a moment, the violin haunts them again. Then Brendan smiles. “You’re right. We made it here. Nothing else matters.”

Evgeni grins. “You young, Brendan. Tonight, many parties in Village. Enjoy Olympics. Always remember, must enjoy Olympics.”

Brendan is smiling again now, no more tears.

“Thankyou.”

“Always. Now, party calls, looking for handsome young man to win all the girls, hm?”

Brendan laughs, and turns to go. Then, for the first time in a long time, Evgeni is truly surprised.

“You’re coming too, right? After all, this is the Olympics. We’re here. Nothing else matters.”

Evgeni hesitates for a moment. And then suddenly he thinks, _why not_?

“Snowboarders are having party in the Russian quarter,” he says without hesitation. “I get you in. Snowboarders lots of fun.”

After all, he made it, didn’t he? Four screws and a plate, an artificial disc, and twelve surgeries later, he still made it to the Olympics, still landed a quad, and still won a medal.

The years lift from his shoulders as he walks towards the exit of the rink, trying not to look back. Yes, he made it, and he came out the other side.

Evgeni smiles.

 

END.


End file.
